Pop

Mogwai

"Not many bands give you deep musical introspection and slapstick comedy," comments a deadpan Stuart Braithwaite after fellow guitarist Barry Burns falls off his stool. But, in truth, Mogwai aren't known for all-round entertainment. Their trademark is noise.

Since forming in 1995, the Glaswegian five-piece - tonight augmented by a helping hand called Graham - have become one of the most influential in music. Avowedly uncompromising, their huge soundscapes climb heights of eardrum-splitting turmoil and plummet into pools of brooding tenderness. In recent years they've concentrated more on melancholia than their old grinding, rock sound, but new album My Beast showcases both sides of the restless-spirited band.

The deference of the crowd at the ICA on this first of a five-night residency is so pervasive it becomes a barrier. Along with the copious amounts of head- nodding that accompanies the spectral melody and distorted vocals of Hunted By a Freak, there's a distance that means the wash of sound falls away like a tide. Even the pulsating keyboards and scratchy guitars of Auto Rock, which encourage eager Braithwaite to move like a clockwork toy in need of oiling, fail to whip up any kind of frenzy.

The solitary, intense nature of Mogwai's largely instrumental songs leaves everyone to project their own visions and unspoken words. Even the band, drifting across the stage to change instruments, appear to be occupying very separate headspace. But as the churning, seething songs roll on, the boundary between the personal and collective experience disappears.

The key to understanding the truculent, bombastic We're No Here is to simply exist within each screaming note. The slipstream loveliness of Stanley Kubrick demands to be wallowed in. The effect is like a delicious quicksand, each crashing drumbeat and furious chord dragging you deeper into Mogwai's heavy, all encompassing majesty. As Braithwaite concludes: "You get it all."

· Until Saturday. Box office: 020-7930 3647.

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